


And When the Morning Comes

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8121544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: Combeferre's having a rough night, and he somehow ends up talking the entire night away with Grantaire, of all people.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Forewarning - this has a lot of talk of depression and stuff. And not really romancey stuff - it's more about supportive friendship and how people can be surprisingly great when you let them.

“Don’t jump.”

Combeferre startled, almost enough to fall backwards from his seat onto the sidewalk, but he managed to catch himself with one hand on a cement pillar holding up the bridge.

Still alarmed after steadying himself, he looked over his left shoulder. A man stood a good few feet out of the general spread of the lamplight, just enough that his face wasn’t discernible, only the withered leaves collected under his feet, and his general body shape.

It took Combeferre a few more seconds than it should have, which he wished to blame on mental and emotional exhaustion but was probably something else entirely, but he still was able to connect the raspy voice with the oversized dark coat in less than ten seconds.

“Grantaire,” he greeted. “What brings you on this side of town? I thought you left to go home.”

“Sort of,” he answered, stepping into the light. He looked the same as he did three hours ago, unruly hair peaking out of a knitted hat, fraying Halloween sweater cuffs hiding his fingers. His cheeks and nose were red, though, suggesting he hadn’t been inside since he’d left the party. “But the better question is why you’re sitting on the wrong side of a bridge.”

“Wrong side?”

“Legs are dangling,” he pointed out, which was true. “Want to make them stop?”

Combeferre shrugged, unbothered by the height, but he didn’t want to trouble Grantaire. He swung a leg around, straddling the bridge, silently watching while Grantaire did the same, mirroring his position a couple feet away.

“What brings you on this side of town?” Combeferre repeated. “Didn’t you say you were going home?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Sometimes days come around that feels like plagiarisms. I like to walk around when my mind is full of the unimaginable.”

Grantaire often talked like that, like he had one foot in a Greek tragedy and one foot in the modernist movement. Combeferre always found it completely bemusing; wouldn’t it be exhausting to constantly have your brain stringing up sentences like that? It was occasionally extremely irritating, which usually coincided with Grantaire’s relative level of inebriation; otherwise, secretly, Combeferre always found it slightly endearing, like his entire vernacular and speech was a little enigma to decode.

“And you? What has you looking like a middle-aged English professor whose wife just found out he was having an affair with a student?” Combeferre immediately decided the Mr. Rogers costume was a bad move. “I thought you said you were going to spend the night at Courfeyrac’s.”

“Originally,” Combeferre confirmed. “But it was getting slightly lively for me.”

Grantaire didn’t raise an eyebrow, narrow his eyes, or give any indication that he didn’t believe him. His face didn’t even move a muscle. But, somehow, Combeferre could just _feel_ the waves of skepticism rolling off him. Truly a talent, and it immediately put him on the defensive.

“I mean, you know. Loud and hot.”

Never let it be said it was a _good_ defense.

Grantaire stared at him for a beat too long before shrugging, and pulling a leg up against his chest. “Well then.”

* * *

The moment he woke up, he knew it was going to be one of _those_ days, which was an utter pain in the ass, because the Les Amis’ Halloween party was that night and he didn’t feel like being sullen and unenergetic for the entire thing.

But he’d woken up like this before, being able to feel his stomach just a little too much, somehow just knowing he was going to cry within the next couple hours, with a complete and total lack of enthusiasm that manifested in a lethargy that made it hard to even smile. His soul always felt a bit like a melancholic piano piece.

He doesn’t have a name for it, beyond the little nickname in his head of “sad sloth,” but it always goes away on its own after a few days. A friend in high school used to call it his ‘regularly scheduled mental breakdown.’

Combeferre wouldn’t go that far, but it probably wouldn't make him too much fun to be around that night. But he didn't want to be _that_ person, so he pushed off his blanket, took a shower, made a cup of tea, called Enjolras, bought some snacks at Courfeyrac’s pleading text, and worked on making his smile feel organic while he was at the grocery store.

* * *

The quiet wasn't oppressive.

It was actually not, and Combeferre truly felt like he could probably sit there with Grantaire the entire night and he would never be pressured to talk. But there was something about tonight – be it his emotional state, the quiet water, the brisk autumn air, Grantaire’s still figure – something had words bubbling from his chest, like a dropped antacid tablet in a cup of water.

“I’m not here for suicide.”

Grantaire’s head turned from where it was lying on his knee, so he could look at Combeferre.

“I didn’t really think you were,” Grantaire said. “You just have to admit the position was slightly suspicious.”

“I wasn’t actually going to do anything.”

“Okay.”

“Really.”

“I don’t want to say ‘doth the man protest too much,’ but—”

“I don’t want to be gone from the planet,” Combeferre interrupted. “I have no interest in ending my life. But.” He stopped. He probably shouldn’t be talking about this -  especially to someone he truly doesn’t know all that well, truth be told. But he wants to – he wants someone who will listen, someone who he doesn’t talk to every day, so he isn’t constantly reminded that someone else knows his secrets, his weaknesses. He’s never bared his soul to someone and not regretted it the next morning, wishing he’d kept that piece of weakness to himself – but God, if he doesn’t still want to try in the moment. How very annoyingly human.

“But?” Grantaire prompted, and apparently, that was all it took.

“But sometimes I wonder if I _was_ gone _,_ if I got hit by a truck, or fell off a bridge, or took a taxi to Spain – if it would matter. If anyone would notice, or care. Maybe in two weeks someone would text asking if someone had seen me lately, and then I’d fall into obscurity, that half remembered friend that just went away at sometime. Sometimes I just fantasize about non-existence, and what it would do to the people around me – if anything.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected from Grantaire – probably some kind of reassurance that he’d be missed, that these thoughts are destructive lies, that disappearing would matter.

He didn’t get that, because of course Grantaire refused to play by the rules of most of society. Instead, he got a short nod.

“Yeah. I get that. The wondering about mattering.”

“Mattering, yeah,” Combeferre said, snapping his fingers. The wind was cold on his cheeks, and he clutched his arms to his chest. “Mattering. I know the philosophy behind it all, but I’m talking just in the smallest sense possible. To the people who matter to me – what do I mean to them? Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like…much.”

He was getting frustrated; he felt it rising him, at his complete inability to articulate these ideas that felt just so important somehow.

Grantaire didn’t say anything, but he was staring at him like he was waiting for more, and Combeferre was vulnerable enough that he gave in immediately.

“Everyone else seems to have a place. Someone they fit with, someone they are important to. A purpose they serve. I just don’t have that. I’m the add on, the third, fifth, ninth wheel, the one that would be left without a partner if there were odd numbers during a pair game. I’m just a puzzle piece that’s slightly malformed, and smashing it into place sort of ruins the whole picture, but everyone tries anyway because we have nice, great friends who don’t care that I just don’t fit. And if I took myself out of the equation – would there be a tinge of relief in the sorrow?”

God fucking damn it; he’d started to cry.

* * *

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac yelled, and ushered him inside with a frantic wave of the hand. “Did you bring the corn pops?”

Mildly, Combeferre reached into his grocery bag, and solemnly handed them over to Courfeyrac, who kissed him on the cheek with a “bless your heart” under his breath before he ran into the kitchen.

Jehan was already sprawled longways on the couch, and they lifted a hand in greeting. “You’re a little early.”

Combeferre shrugged off his coat, and laid it on the back of the couch, careful not to let it touch Jehan’s feet. “I usually am.”

“Nice sweater,” Jehan observed. It was a cardigan colored to look like a candy corn, and handmade by his Aunt Petunia. Combeferre nodded his head in thanks. “You staying the night?”

Combeferre shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

“K,” Jehan said, and yawned. It shouldn’t, it was an innocuous enough thing to say and do, but something about it made Combeferre’s stomach wince, and he just had to look away.

* * *

“Shit,” Combeferre laughed, wiping his eyes. New tears immediately followed, and he impatiently brushed them away. “Christ. I haven’t cried in front of someone since I was fifteen.”

“What was that about?” Grantaire asked lightly. Combeferre looked up, and through the tears, he saw Grantaire’s relaxed posture, back leaning against the pillar, both legs slightly swinging, hands deep in his too-big coat’s pockets. He didn’t look intrigued, more politely interested, which was somehow far easier to confide to than overwhelming concern.

“I had tried out for the school musical.” South Pacific, it had been. He couldn’t even remember the role anymore, but he’s pretty sure it had something to do with laundry. “I had practiced for weeks, and the cast list went out. I didn’t even make chorus.”

“Ouch,” Grantaire said mildly.

“Yeah.” Combeferre shook his head. “I’m not coordinated nor do I have any particular talent in singing, but I really wanted to make it. When I saw, I went and hid in the musical practice room and cried. A girl found me, one who had gotten a supporting role. She sat with me and told me about how she had failed for two years before finally getting a solo.” Combeferre smiled at the memory, tears finally slowing. “For some reason, I remember she had a dress with cherries on it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, she sat with me until I stopped, told me to try again next year, and gave me a hug.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Try again next year.”

“No.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment. It was dark enough that he really couldn’t see anything over the water, sans a buoy with a green light blinking every three seconds. He had counted up to eighteen blinks before Grantaire continued.

“So,” he said. “When’s the last time you cried in front of anyone on purpose?”

Combeferre looked over. He didn’t answer, because there wasn’t one.

Grantaire seemed to understand with an incline of his head. Silently, he reached into his coat pocket he pulled out his flask. He took a swig before throwing it to Combeferre with no forewarning, who caught it with enough dexterity that he was a little proud of himself.

He looked into it, but due to the low lighting, couldn’t see any contents beyond the fact that there was some sort of dark liquid. Thinking _what the hell,_ he took a large swig, and promptly spat it out onto the pavement.

Grantaire’s deep, booming laugh made him look up, and he caught Grantaire’s wide, real smile before he managed to tuck it away into a sardonic grin.

“Not a fan of gatorade?”

“Not expecting gatorade,” Combeferre corrected. Grantaire leaned forward and grabbed the flask out of Combeferre’s hand.

“The ticket,” Grantaire said, leaning back, “is to have people expect the worst from you.”

“Is it?” Combeferre responded mildly.

Grantaire just winked, and, staring silently, Combeferre realized he understood almost nothing about this man at all.

* * *

 “I never actually was able to learn the present indicative in German—”

“Cosette!” Marius interrupted, grabbing her hand from where she’s appeared behind Combeferre. “Save me some apples, please?”

“Of course,” she answered, kissing his hand. Marius beamed at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to Combeferre. “You were saying?”

“Never mind, it’s okay.”

* * *

“Let’s take a walk,” Grantaire said, apropos of nowhere. They’d been sitting in silence for at least ten minutes - a calm, comfortable silence, one he wasn’t sure they could have shared even last night.

“Where do you want to go?” Combeferre asked, standing. His legs were cramped and cold, and he stretched them, wincing.

“I know a place,” Grantaire non-answered mysteriously, and began walking backwards towards town. Combeferre rolled his eyes, but followed, his feet much louder on the sidewalk than Grantaire’s.

Grantaire turned, walking forward, at a gait Combeferre had to marching walk to match. He had never noticed how long Grantaire’s legs were before - but the man could move.

“You cold?” Grantaire asked conversationally, glancing over.

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s nippy, but I’m alright, thanks. You okay?”

“Yep,” Grantaire said, and it was probably true; he had on a knitted hat that was obviously handmade, a deep maroon wool thing with uneven stitching and a misshapen loom on top.

“Like it?” Grantaire asked, noticing his staring.

Combeferre nodded. “Eponine?”

Grantaire nodded a yes. “It was a present for watching Gavroche when she had jury duty.”

“It’s nice. She tried to teach me once, and I was awful.” A beat. “Did she ever try to teach you?”

“No, I had something else to do the night she wanted to try.”

“What were you doing?”

“Preserving the last hanging thread of my dignity.”

Combeferre laughed.  

* * *

Combeferre was in the back corner of the room when it hit.

Everyone was having a good time. Grantaire already left, but he did so in good spirits and to a round of safe farewells. In the kitchen, he could see Bossuet and Jehan building a tower with leftover Halloween candy. Musichetta was looking for something in the fridge, while Marius was at the stove, attempting to make homemade hard cider. Cosette was on the loveseat with Courfeyrac, making friendship bracelets from a kit she found in a Goodwill. Bahorel and Feuilly were the only ones watching the horror movie that Enjolras put on an hour ago, something about a haunted doll by the looks of it, and it was hard to tell whether they look so intrigued because it was good or bad. Enjolras and Joly were only a couple feet from Combeferre, having a light conversation.

There were Halloween lights strung, pumpkins on the table, food everywhere, the lights were low, the noise was high, there were smiles all around.

Usually, this kind of situation hit Combeferre right in the heart, and he would feel such a stab of love for his friends that he could hardly contain it.  

But, instead, the scene hit him right in the stomach, and it was all he could do to not double over with a gasp, and he suddenly had to stop the overwhelming feeling of needing to cry.

It was stupid, it was so goddamn stupid, but he felt so damn lonely, watching everyone he loves’ joy and yet feeling completely separated from it, like their care and love and happiness and ease was just inaccessible, and yet he must watch their oblivious happy faces while it goes on.

He leaned back into the corner, and put a hand over his mouth, trying to keep it in.

Two deep, struggling breaths.

 _There’s no reason to feel this way,_ he told himself, like that suddenly made him capable of participating, of feeling the joyful ease of friendship that the others were enjoying that he was somehow cut off from.

He left, heading towards the bathroom, which he locked with a shaking hand and aggressive turn.

He sat on the floor and let himself cry.

* * *

“Favorite animal?”

“River otter. Worst article you had to read in university?”

“Kenneth Burke’s 'Language as Symbolic Action.' Worst book you’ve ever read?”

“Metamorphosis by Kafka.” Combeferre held up a hand to Grantaire’s obvious interruption. “No arguing, it sucks, I hate it, it counts. Favorite play?”

“Antigone. Stupidest thing you’ve stayed up all night over?”

“I was researching if there were any immortal jellyfish.”

Grantaire blinked. “Are there?”

“Possibly! Most frustrating thing you’ve stayed up all night over?”

“A fucking graphic design project making a logo for a dance company in town, and my tablet broke, so I spent all fucking night in the library googling how to do my own tech repairs since nowhere was open. A country you wished you learned more about in school?”

“Qatar. Least favorite fish?”

“Goby. We’re here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a coffee shop, almost completely abandoned. Five minutes later and they were back out the door, walking down an abandoned sidewalk in the city, dead leaves fluttering the cool night breeze.

“I can’t believe that exists,” Combeferre said, before taking a sip of his hot cider. It was too warm, and burned his tongue a little.

“I worked there for about three weeks before I was fired for goofing around,” Grantaire said, and then blew on his coffee. “You’d be surprised by how many kids in a college town want a quiet place to work real late in the evening.”

“But 24 hour? Is that really profitable for a coffee house?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Apparently.”

Combeferre shook his head. “Where do you even find these places?”

“I was in the Parisian secret service and had to know the ins and outs of the cities so I could tell my agent where to go if he was being perused.”

Combeferre squinted. “I bet you just skipped class a lot and wandered around.”

Grantaire flushed; though, to be fair, it was quite cool out. “You have no proof.”

“You’re not such an enigma after all.”

“Excuse me,” Grantaire said, with great affront. “I’m unknowable and mysterious.”

Combeferre laughed hard enough that some of his cider spilled onto his hand. Grantaire’s hidden smile was worth the slight burn.

* * *

Crying has a peculiar way of draining emotions, and yet somehow not actually making you actually feel any better.

When he headed back out, a full twenty minutes later, some people have changed position, but it was mostly the same. He weaved himself slowly through the bodies, and got the occasional “hi,” but the point is obvious - nobody noticed he was gone.

And while it shouldn’t matter – doesn’t matter – and most certainly doesn’t mean anything, it felt like a giant red, blinking Broadway sign, the words “UNNECESSARY” flashing in neon yellow, with an arrow pointing at his head.

He made his way back to the corner.

Nobody joined him.

* * *

“You’ve succeeded where I’ve failed.”

Grantaire snorted. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes,” Combeferre pressed, “you have.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, deeply skeptical. “Where?”

They were in a playground now, and the creaking of Grantaire’s swing as he went higher and higher reminded Combeferre far too much of a horror movie. He was only slightly swaying, feet dragging in the sand.

“You’re just...You’re always so…” He waved his hands aimlessly in the air, like he could catch the right word out of the wind. “Human,” he finished.

“I’m always a human? I think you’ve probably managed that too.”

“No,” Combeferre dismissed. “That’s not what I mean. You’re not _a_ human, you’re _human._ ”

Grantaire’s face sort of radiated _what the fuck are you talking about,_ so he continued. “For better or worse, you’ve lived your life fully. You’ve experienced more than I can even, God, comprehend. You’ve gone to different countries; stayed in tents for protests; been in every bar in the city; gone out almost every night; done a hundred different hobbies; met a thousand different people; seen the world, done it all, had your cake. You’ve experienced so many people, so many things, and so many situations - and I can’t even dream of it. I spend almost every night on my couch, alone, scrolling on the Internet or reading books. I may have lived life, but you’ve experienced it. You know the world. I know of the world.”

Grantaire was silent, and dug his feet into the sand, stopping the swing. He moved side to side, swaying with the excess force of movement.

“I’ve always envied you for that, a bit,” Combeferre admitted. “I’ve never had the personality to go everywhere and meet everyone - but I always feel like I’m missing out on the whole reason for being alive just because I feel like I have an obligation to be responsible.”

“It’s weird to hear you say that,” Grantaire said at last. It had been long enough that Combeferre had been growing more and more awkward about his candidness. “Given the fact that I’ve been half terrified and half envious of you since we met.”

Combeferre blinked. “Envious of me?” he repeated, astonished. “What of?”

“You’re so – so calm. So collected. You have your shit together. You complain about being responsible and missing life – but I feel like I’ve been so careless with my life that I haven’t set myself up for any real future. Sure, I know where to go for a good time, and I’ve met a lot of people – but I’ve made a mess of my own life. The price of that excitement is really high, personally. I have no degree, no savings account, no real skills to speak of. I haven’t been able to foster long lasting _anything_ because I’m never able to stay in one place for over a month. I never feel like I have a good grip on myself or where I’m going. I drink to forget life. I feel like I’m breaking my neck simply by living. But you – you have it so _together._ You’re stable. You know who you are, what you’re doing, where you’re going home to, _who_ you’re going home to. You have yourself together. I’m just a mess.”

Combeferre breathed out a sigh, and buried his feet in the sand. “Well, _I’ve_ always been impressed by you.”

“No one else is.”

“Not true.” He sighed at Grantaire’s eye roll. “I feel like everyone thinks of me as so together – but I feel like such a mess sometimes too.”

Grantaire was silent for a moment, starting to swing slightly back and forth again. “I’ve always kind of needed people to see the good in me,” he said at last. “Maybe you just need someone to see the bad in you.”

It’s a weird thing to say, but, somehow, Combeferre’s never felt understood so well.

* * *

It was bubbling again. It usually wasn’t this bad, a good hard cry is almost always enough – but it was coming once again, beating his heart against his ribcage too fast, clouding his eyes, choking his words. He was still in the corner, unnoticed, so he started working on breathing exercises again, just to regulate his patterns so he doesn’t lose it in front of all his friends. If there’s anything he doesn’t like doing, it’s making a scene.

They were all starting to form around the couch now, Friday the 13th in the DVD player. Popcorn was bursting in the kitchen, and someone was swearing at it – Joly, it seems.

He took a breath, and moved from his shadow into the light of the kitchen.

* * *

“Hayes.”

“Garfield.”

“Arthur.”

“Cleveland.”

“Harrison.”

“Cleveland.”

“Roosevelt.”

“AHA!” Grantaire yelled, and hit Combeferre on his chest with the back of his hand. “You forgot McKinley.”

“Ah shit,” Combeferre said, rubbing his temples. Grantaire did a little backwards dance, and it made Combeferre laugh, despite himself. “Okay, Russia’s governmental leaders.”

“Starting with Grand Duchy, Tsardom, Imperial rule, the Soviet Union, or Russian Federation?”

“Your pick.”

“Grand Duke Ivan IV, The Terrible.”

Combeferre looked down at his feet to hide his smile. “Simeon Bekbulatovich.”

* * *

“Joly?” Combeferre said, rapping his fingers lightly on the doorframe.

“Mhmm?” Joly replied distantly, pouring melted butter over three of the five bowls of popcorn.

“I’m going to head out.” Joly’s head snapped up, and he put the pan back on the stovetop, eyes now concerned.

“I thought you were staying all night. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Combeferre said, shaking his head. “I’ve just got to be up early tomorrow again.”

“Are you sure you want to walk back at night?”

“I’ll just call a taxi.” Combeferre waved his hand dismissively. “It’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” Joly said, visibly unhappy.

“I am.”

“Then have a good night. Be safe!”

“I will!” Combeferre laughed. “Give the others my apologies.”

“Okay, will do.”

Combeferre turned and headed to the door, letting the smile drop.

* * *

“Demons?”

“No.”

“Witches?”

“No.”

“Aliens?”

“Undecided.”

“God?”

“No.”

“Loch Ness Monster?”

“Giant fish.”

“Bigfoot?”

“No.”

“Ghosts?”

“No.”

“Dragons?”

“No.”

“Magic?”

“No.”

“God, do you have any fun _at all?_ ”

Grantaire blinked. “Why, do you have a different answer to one of those?”

“Yes – to all of the above.”

“What? _Why?_ ”

“Why not?” Combeferre countered.

“Intellectual disengagement?”

“Science is the experimentation with what we do know to try to understand what we do not know. I find absolutely no reason to our current knowledge should put limits on what our future knowledge may tell us.”

“Eh, I don’t know about that argument, bro,” Grantaire said, shaking his head.

Combeferre reached over, and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side slightly. “Careful, there’s a pothole.”

Grantaire shot him a smile. “Thanks, may have saved my ankle.”

“No problem,” Combeferre said, dropping his hand, and smiled back. “Hey, the sun is starting to rise.”

“Look at that,” Grantaire said, eyes towards the horizon. “Looks like it will be a cloudless day.”

Combeferre looked up, and let himself feel the breeze cold on his cheeks. There’s a peace, a contentness to it that is almost indescribable – like some heavy puzzle piece that had been just out of place had finally snapped to where it was supposed to be all along. “Yeah, would you look at that.”

* * *

It was a dark, black night – no clouds, but the stars were hidden from the light pollution of the city. He walked until everything hurt – his lungs, from the cold; his legs, from the strain; his jaw, from clenching it; his arms, from squeezing them; his eyes, from blinking back stinging tears.

He didn’t know why he felt so goddamn awful – there was nothing to set it off, no behavior that should have made him feel unwanted.

And yet here he is – angry and sad and hurt with no reason for any of it, looking over a bridge. Without much forethought, he sat on it, swinging his legs over so they are dangling over the black waves.

He looked down, but he couldn't see the bottom.

* * *

“You know,” Grantaire said, bumping into Combeferre’s shoulder so he can catch his eye. “Just because they can enjoy a night without you doesn’t mean they can enjoy a life without you.”

“Couldn’t they though?”

“No,” Grantaire said easily. Combeferre rolled his eyes, but Grantaire caught them again, far more serious. “Hey, I mean that.”

“I’m not essential to anyone’s survival, or their happiness.”

Grantaire looked like he’s considering his words carefully. “When I was eleven,” he started out slowly, and Combeferre had to blink at the non sequitur. “I had this friend named Tommy. He was my best friend for two years - and I’m talking the real kind of best friend, the hang out every day and play kind, the ‘we’re never parted on the schoolyard’ kind. I knew him better than I’ve probably known anyone. And, one day at school, he tells me that he no longer wants to be friends, because this boy Johnny wanted to be friends, and Johnny had a cooler house, and Johnny didn’t like me.”

It didn’t strike him often, but Combeferre was still occasionally horrified by the casual cruelty of children.

“And he disappeared from my life by his choice, and I didn’t have a say. And I’m gonna be honest - I don’t think of Tommy often. Almost never. He’s not important to me, he doesn’t matter anymore. But when I think of it? It still hurts. It’s insane, because it was over a decade ago, but somehow, I still feel the sting of rejection of it, I still feel the helplessness, I still even kind of miss what we had. It goes away - but it never really goes away.”

Combeferre stared at Grantaire’s face. His ears are abnormally large - how did he never notice that?

“And don’t you think you’re a bit more ingrained and essential to your friends' lives than Tommy was to mine? They’d get over it, sure, you have to move on so you can continue existing - but they’d never actually get _over_ it. It’s the kind of hurt that changes you, just that little bit, throws your life off course just enough that it’s never exactly straight again.”

“I guess I know that,” Combeferre admitted. “It’s just harder to feel it.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded. “Yeah.”

Combeferre turned the words over in his head again and again, like you do with cracked lips with balm. After a moment, he stole a glance at Grantaire, who was staring at his own shoes, worn and caked with mud.

“Grantaire,” he said, and somehow he knows it’s essential to get this out. “You do know that’s the same with you? The exact same? No one would actually ever get over it if you left, no matter the reason.”

Grantaire looked up, and gave him a small, brittle smile. “I know that, it’s just harder to feel it.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre said, licking his lips. “Yeah.”

They’ve made it to Grantaire’s door, an old blue one, with a taped on clipart pumpkin by the knocker.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said, because it had to come out at some point, and it’d be excruciating if he tried to do it a week after the fact. “You didn’t have to stay with me all night.”

“No, but I didn’t want you to be alone. And maybe I didn’t want to be alone either. Mutually beneficial.”

“Symbiotic relationship,” Combeferre offers.

“Indeed, Mr. Scientist.”

Combeferre suddenly felt a stab of longing, so visceral and gripping that he actually had to lean forward and clutch his hands in his pockets, fingernails bending against his palms.

Unexpected would be an understatement.

“What are you thinking about?” Grantaire asked, no doubt in question to the unschooled reaction Combeferre was sure bled all over his face.

“Just wondering if chemical releases from emotions can hit the body before the mind processes why it’s happening.”

Grantaire cocked his head, considering. “You mean like when you have a gut feeling something is wrong about ten seconds before someone hits you on a moped because they were too busy eating a pickle instead of watching the sidewalk they were driving on?”

Combeferre huffed out a laugh, surprised. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Then, yeah, I’d say that's a real thing.”

They paused.

“You going to be okay?” Grantaire asked.

“Yeah,” Combeferre said, and means it. “You?”

Grantaire nodded. He bit his lip, looking a little awkward, before stepping forward and capturing Combeferre in a hug.

It’s hard, much harder than people usually casually hug. Although, Combeferre reasoned, this wasn’t exactly a usual _hello/goodbye_ hug. It was something else entirely, a different ballgame, but damned if he could say what.

They let go, and Grantaire slipped into the apartment without looking back, like a fish back into the water.

Combeferre stood for a moment at his door, underneath a flickering overhead light, just feeling the heavy weight on his chest.

He walked home silently, a fairly short affair, thoughtlessly and quietly watching the sun arise in front of him.

It would be a brisk day.

He arrived back to his apartment thirty minutes after dawn, sat in his armchair, and watched the sun slowly rise until it was no longer visible from the window.

The empty, heavy, thoughtless content feeling never leaves.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's mostly sad and things. 
> 
> Alternative title: this could be the start of something new, it feels so right to be here with youuuuu
> 
> (I hope you can't tell that I accidentally switched tenses halfway through and had to go through and fix every verb - at least it kept me from my essay on Julian Assange, because the best thing writing fic is for is procrastination!)
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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